138
poems.
Thus the glad voice of Fingal. She replies,
While death's dark shades pass o'er her gentle eyes,
Which seek his form: 'He has return'd with fame;
I feel the exulting pride; I hear his name!
But by the rock my fainting form must rest
Ere I may clasp my lov'd one to my breast.
Oh, let the harp bear tidings to his ear,
Daughter of Morna! that his love is near.'
While death's dark shades pass o'er her gentle eyes,
Which seek his form: 'He has return'd with fame;
I feel the exulting pride; I hear his name!
But by the rock my fainting form must rest
Ere I may clasp my lov'd one to my breast.
Oh, let the harp bear tidings to his ear,
Daughter of Morna! that his love is near.'
'Comala drew her bow-string bright;
Chieftain, welcome home!
On Ardven's lonely plain to-night
Three deer were slain;
The fire blazes in our sight;
A feast for those who roam;
Haste, chief who put the foe to flight!
Welcome home again!'
Chieftain, welcome home!
On Ardven's lonely plain to-night
Three deer were slain;
The fire blazes in our sight;
A feast for those who roam;
Haste, chief who put the foe to flight!
Welcome home again!'
Thus to her harp fair Dersagrena sang;
And through the woods the sweetest echoes rang;
The gentle sounds to Fingal's ear were bourne;
And brighter beam'd the blushes of the morn,
His voice, exulting, met again their ear;
Comala sigh'd as thus he drew more near:
'Ye sons of song! of streamy Carun tell,
And of the foes who on the dark shore fell.
Sing ye aloud that Comala may hear,
And that the tidings may her spirit cheer.
And through the woods the sweetest echoes rang;
The gentle sounds to Fingal's ear were bourne;
And brighter beam'd the blushes of the morn,
His voice, exulting, met again their ear;
Comala sigh'd as thus he drew more near:
'Ye sons of song! of streamy Carun tell,
And of the foes who on the dark shore fell.
Sing ye aloud that Comala may hear,
And that the tidings may her spirit cheer.
